


Death is the Maiden

by Lotusunset



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Deformed Christine, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotusunset/pseuds/Lotusunset
Summary: Envied for his looks, brilliance and talent, Erik lives a life that most men can only dream of.  His drive to create has always made him a man of destructive obsessions.  A chance encounter with a mysterious, masked performer hurtles him into the next one.  With his way of life at stake, what will he sacrifice to protect his latest muse?
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

_ _

* * *

_ Boscherville, France 1881 _

He still knew these dirty, messy roads by heart. He could close his eyes and know that the baker’s was on the left and the butcher’s on the right. Countless times he had visited each of these places dotting the road in his youth. The smell in the air brought back the memories of running down into town to fetch groceries for his mother.

He took another turn and it was not much time at all before he was face to face with the ivy covered walls of his childhood home once more. A pitiful, yearly pilgrimage. Cold logic would dictate that this would mean nothing in the end. Warm sentiments, nostalgia and a pervasive fear of the unknown kept him trapped in this routine. He knocked on the door.

The family that lived here now had done so for at least ten years. In perfect honesty, he wasn’t quite sure of the exact time. He simply visited them year after year with the same intention to complete this ridiculous ritual. He knocked on the door.

“Monsieur Delacroix, I had a feeling we’d be expecting you soon. You appear to be quite well,” A middle aged woman answered the door with a grin. The man bowed his head and politely tipped his hat towards her.

“I am, my latest concerto is still the talk of the town in Paris,” He replied with a smirk.

“How lucky we are to be visited by such a famous Parisian every year,” she remarked, stepping aside to allow him to enter the house. With his height, he had to bend down to fit through. He fondly remembered the days when such a thing was not required. A simpler time.

“I would hardly call myself famous. I do what I love and for some reason, people are willing to pay me for it. If that is all it takes to be famous, it is of little consequence to me,” He removed his hat and smiled.

“Always so humble, M. Delacroix. Truly, you must be an oddity among the rest of the city.”

“A side effect of growing up here, I’m sure,” he chuckled. His eyes couldn’t help but wander around the house. The carpet was different than in his memories. The decorations were far more modern. It was hardly recognizable as the house he once knew.

“Would you like some tea, sir?” The woman asked. He nodded.

“Yes, that would be quite lovely. You must tell me what your husband has been up to lately, and how the children are.”

An hour later, after all pleasantries had been fully exchanged and permission had been granted to harvest the flowers, the man found himself in the backyard of the little house. One by one, he carefully cut roses from the bushes. Red and pink, yellow and white. Oh, the hours he and his mother had spent cultivating these flowers that still reached for the sun.

He laid a bloom near an oddly shaped rock that was concealed by the shrubbery. A small memorial for the canine companion of his youth. Dear, sweet old Sasha. He remembered all the times he had gotten in trouble as a child for helping the dog dig holes around the yard. All the fine clothes he had ruined in the hopes of finding something special hiding in the dirt. Nothing seemed to rattle his dear mother more than the ruination of perfection.

With his arms full of flowers, he left the house behind. The constant dichotomy between fond, happy memories and the deep, cold resentment that festered within him was too difficult to bear in those walls. 

Down the road sat Mademoiselle Perrault’s house. He had spent a great deal of time there, too. His mother’s most trusted friend, Marie Perrault had once been a constant presence in his life. Since he had left Boscherville behind, she too had been pushed to the back of his mind. The guilt often weighed heavy on his conscience. It was never her fault that he had become such a bitter man, she had never been anything but kind to him.

On this day of remembrance, he could smother his feelings and do the proper thing. After shifting the bundle of flowers in his arms, he knocked on her door. He recognized the woman that answered. Her face had gained more wrinkles since the last he saw her but he’d know those warm eyes anywhere. Simonette, the maid that had served him and his mother for so long. As a boy, he’d had a particular fondness for her. She had always been rather beautiful to him, despite her plain features.

“Charles,” she greeted him with a large grin, “what a pleasant surprise!” The man laughed, the sound of his own name feeling foreign to his ears.

“I haven’t been called Charles in quite some time,” he replied.

“You’ll always be our little Charles here,” she said.

“I know, my presence lingers on, despite the fact that I haven’t lived here in decades,” he scoffed.

“Everyone that knew you as a boy still likes to tell the stories of all the times you’d climb trees and either get stuck in them or fall out of them and hurt yourself,” she said with a wistful air.

“It’s quite fascinating how such tales haunt us all,” he remarked.

“You left quite an impression on everyone, Charles. While we know you’ve moved on to bigger, better things than this sleepy town, your presence is missed. Despite what you might think, we do care about you.”

His brows knitted together. A slight pain lurched in his chest. He didn’t want to think about how these people might miss him and spare thoughts for him in his absence. It made it far easier to wrap his past up with a neat little bow if he could pretend they weren’t real people.

“How is Mlle. Perrault?” He inquired, changing the subject before Simonette could indulge in more sentiments. The woman sighed, her shoulders deflating.

“She is currently resting, Marie has been quite ill for the past month...She has been doing much better but I can’t imagine she will make it through another winter,” Simonette explained. She herself was not a very young woman by any means, she wasn’t all that much younger than Mlle. Perrault, in fact. Still, she seemed far less troubled by the ravages of time. 

“That is...quite unfortunate,” the man swallowed a knot in his throat. He both felt the need to preemptively grieve and to celebrate the cutting of one more string that trapped him here.

“Has the doctor visited? What has he said about her condition?” He inquired immediately, “If his diagnosis was unsatisfactory, I can send a doctor from--”

“Paris? Our new doctor is fresh from the academy, I honestly doubt that another Parisian doctor could come up with a better explanation. She is simply old and--”

He interrupted her just as she had stopped him, “Where is Dr. Barye? Did that overbearing dunce of a doctor finally retire?” He sneered. Simonette paused, looking up into the man’s piercing eyes.

“He died, Charles. Last year. Shortly after your last visit, an illness swept through town and swept him away with it. Most people were fine after about a week but he...he had never been the same since Madeleine--since your mother died.”

Unable to restrain himself, he laughed. A deep and bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Immediately, Simonette’s features soured. Her warm eyes grew dark and her lips pursed into a disappointed scowl.

“Yes, of course. Nothing was ever the same after Madeleine died, the angel among us all,” he snorted.

“He loved her, you know that. They were inseparable,” Simonette defended her old friends with sharp conviction.

“He hung on her every word like a dog waiting for scraps. Just like everyone else that ever entered her godforsaken orbit,” he sneered. Simonette’s nostrils flared at his hurtful comments.

“I think that you should leave, Charles,” she growled.

“Yes, I do believe that I should be on my way. I can’t keep all of Paris waiting for me forever,” he gritted his teeth slightly, forcing a caustic grin to his lips. He picked a few of the flowers from his arms and handed them off to Simonette.

“Give these to Mlle. Perrault when she awakens. Tell her I send my best. Good day, madame.” And at that, he turned away. He heard the door creak closed behind him. Simonette said nothing more, yet in his mind, the man could hear his mother’s voice chiding him from beyond the grave.

_ “Your best will never be good enough, Charles.” _

His grip tightened on the flowers until the thorns were digging into his fingers.

The next stop on his stroll through this infuriating place was the church.

Despite his tumultuous relationship with his faith, the man’s memories contained in its house of worship were remembered with a genuine smile. He had learned so much here. Heard so many stories, studied so many things. For years, he had played the organ that sat just behind the altar. As soon as his feet could reach the pedal board, he had insisted on learning how. Being of exceptional height, even as a child, it did not take too many years before he could. The temptation to sit on that bench and fill this place with beautiful music was great and nearly overwhelming. Still, he resisted the urge. The desire to finish his business here and be on his way back to Rouen won out.

He walked down the aisle and spent little time inside. He went out a door on the side of the building that led into the cemetery. He thought that if he sped through the church, it would be far easier to pretend that Father Mansart was just around a corner in there, too distracted by his reading to realize someone had entered. He vaguely remembered that the priest now was a young man with a particularly sunshiny disposition and that was something that he did not wish to engage with presently.

In the cemetery, he passed the graves of people that had died long ago. One he remembered meeting briefly as a boy. Another, he had only heard an odd assortment of stories about. There was a grave with a particularly ornate headstone that he had always meant to ask about but never had. He had always imagined that his own fantastical story of how the man came to rest here was far greater than reality. For how could anything interesting ever really happen in this sleepy town?

He came to his first destination among all the memorials. A simple headstone with a cross. The man knelt down into the grass with practiced grace.

“Hello, my old friend,” he spoke out loud, his normally smooth voice stammering on the syllables. He laid a few of his roses on the grave, one of each color. Then he traced the name on the stone with a soft, reverent touch. Father Erik Mansart.

Over twenty five years later and his grief struck him as if it was fresh. As an eccentric child that had difficulty relating to others his own age, the man had found a confidant in the priest. Father Mansart had been a constant presence of light when the world seemed only dull and dark. Whenever mother would lose her temper, Father Mansart had allowed that odd little boy to stay there in the safety of the church. If she refused to see reason, the Father would stand his ground against her and defend the child. Once the Father had died, few were willing to challenge Madeleine’s indomitable will.

The man’s fingers lingered upon the letters of the priest’s first name. Erik. The name the man had adopted for himself shortly after Father Mansart had passed away. It had always felt poetic to carry on the man’s legacy in some small way once the name Charles had become too much of a burden to bear. Charles was trapped by his mother’s unreal expectations while Erik could be whomever he wanted to be.

Or so he told himself. The truth of the man he had become was somewhere between the two.

Erik stood and carried on with his journey through the cemetery. His mother’s grave was next on the list. Immediately, he saw the addition of Dr. Barye’s headstone beside his mother’s. The sight provoked his anger. Of course his stone would be put so close to Madeleine’s. Now, all in a row was his father’s, his mother’s and then the doctor’s. It was so terribly ironic that Erik couldn’t help but laugh. Madeleine always had such difficulty parting with her favorite things!

He dropped a rose on his father’s grave. Erik had never met this man. He had died a few short months before Erik had been born. Still, Madeleine had taken his name and given it to her child in remembrance. Charles. Oh, how he had grown to hate that name! And yet, he could not fault it for being his father’s. Perhaps if he had lived, Erik’s opinion would have been different on the matter. It still felt like he knew him through all the stories that mother would tell of him. That even if their romance had been rather short lived, it had been the sort of love of fairy tales. Erik still liked to believe such a childish notion. He wanted to believe it, lest what he knew of his father be tarnished. He didn’t wish to think that his father had simply been another poor bug trapped in the never-ending web of Madeleine’s control.

Erik looked to the doctor’s grave. It was clearly the newest of the three, the stone still perfectly sharp and bright in the sunlight. He supposed he should pay his respects. He dropped a rose on the grave, too. For all his faults, Dr. Barye had tried to be a good man to Erik. Perhaps it had been some sort of twisted jealousy that had kept him from ever letting the doctor become a true presence in his life. Perhaps Erik had already been haunted by too many other ghosts to ever give the man a real chance.

Or maybe he refused to like anyone that could bring such a wicked woman happiness.

Finally, his gaze settled on the stone in the middle. This one was the most elegantly carved. With sweeping flourishes and perfect little flowers, it painted a quaint little picture that this woman was loveliness personified. 

Though one could certainly argue that she was exactly as such. In her own mind.

Erik remembered when she had fallen gravely ill and Dr. Barye had asked him to design the headstone and possibly carve the thing. Overhearing the conversation, Madeleine had immediately destroyed the notion.

_ “That hopeless boy? You’ll be putting  _ him _ in the ground before he ever even decides between granite or marble.” _

For all her wicked little games, for all her cold cruelty and manipulations, she was still his mother. The terrible and the wonderful things about her were so intertwined that it was impossible to sort them all out. For years he had believed himself useless when in reality, that had been the furthest thing from the truth. Madeleine had simply wished to see how far he’d go. Being his mother, she had known every way to pick and stab at all his little insecurities. She had learned early on that he was the stubborn sort of person that did not like being told what he could and could not do.

He hated her. He loved her. He hoped she was burning in Hell. He hoped she had found something to finally make her happy and bring her peace. This internal war was what kept him coming back here year after year to pay his respects.

He dropped the rest of his bouquet on her grave. He hoped she could see them, see how beautiful they still bloomed. That somehow, after all these years, they were still perfect. At least, he thought them to be perfect. He fingered one of the silky petals and knew that Madeleine would find some way to criticize these wonderful flowers. Nothing would ever be good enough for her, so what point was there in trying?

Objectively, this was easy to understand. One should not allow their life to be governed by such unrealistic expectations. And yet Erik could not seem to shake his drive to achieve absolute perfection in everything he did.

With the name he borrowed from the priest and the name he had inherited from his father, Erik left everything his mother gave him behind. At least until next year, in any case. Life in Boscherville would go on without him and he rather liked it that way. Paris was calling, there was much work waiting back home for him at the opera.

But first, came the journey back to Rouen.

A few hours by brougham, it was past noon when Erik made it back to the train station. He then discovered that he had narrowly missed the train he had originally planned on taking back to Paris. Typically being punctual to an obsessive degree, Erik gritted his teeth and barked a long string of unwarranted insults at the poor clerk at the ticket window. When the man threatened to call the station master, Erik growled and left in a huff.

The next train would not be leaving until much later this evening. Therefore, he’d have a few hours to waste away in this city before returning home. At the very least, he thought, Rouen was a far better place to be stranded than Boscherville.

Still, he was rather anxious to return home. He never did like venturing too far from his dwelling, despite the flicker of wanderlust in his heart that begged him to leave France all together and climb a mountain. Or see the pyramids. Or perhaps the Orient. These were the wistful dreams of an old man with a youthful soul, too set in his ways to really make an effort to change now. His imagination had suited him quite well for the entirety of his life; he could be content with that.

He tried to wait at the train station. He purchased a newspaper and skimmed it over. Most of the stories would only concern the locals. The few that concerned Paris were things that Erik had already known, being so well connected to the elite. Business affairs, the latest gossip passed off as news...Though he did make a note of the story concerning Bernard Comtois’ missing daughter. Erik had thought that had only been a rumor. He had once been well acquainted with the man, he would have to write to him once he returned home to see how he was faring.

Soon though, Erik grew restless. With far too much time stretched out before him, he bolted from his spot on a bench and made his way into the city proper. It occurred to him that he should eat away at some of these wasted hours by in fact, actually eating. He ducked into the next restaurant he came across, not particularly paying attention to the sort of fare they served there. 

He stood out from the other patrons in the place, his perfectly pressed and tailored clothing betraying his status as part of the Parisian upper classes. He ignored the stares and awkward glances as he sat down to eat. Seated near a window, Erik found himself far more interested in watching the people strolling just outside than actually eating. In one hand, he held his fork, in the other, he held a pencil that was furiously sketching away in a small notebook. He drew the people he saw in short bursts, focusing on the details of them he found interesting. A man’s well-kept mustache, a woman’s particularly large, flamboyant hat. In between the strokes of lead, he picked at his meal.

When it came time to pay, he inquired as to what on Earth one could do in this city to pass time while he waited for the train.

“Well, the faire just came to town. They’re boasting all sorts of new, fascinating things to see,” the waiter replied nonchalantly. Erik mulled the idea over, frowning as he did so. The faire was not what he expected, nor what he thought his first choice ever would have been. Given the emotionally taxing day he’d had, dealing with crowds had not been on his agenda. He had seen advertisements for the faire plastered to the walls of the train station. There was a contortionist performing. Various tattooed men and women that could breathe fire. Magicians with their astonishing tricks, musicians from all around the world come to share their songs…

Something seemed to be beckoning him to go, despite his initial reservations. If he went for even just a little while, perhaps the visit might prove useful. Perhaps he’d find inspiration for a new composition there. Inspiration to hand over to the costume makers for the next opera season. Being distracted by a vibrant cacophony of the human condition seemed far preferable to just sitting around the train station and waiting. Such idleness would breed dark thoughts in his head, sending him into a downward spiral of painful memories.

The traveling faire was, as expected, a loud mess of people. Erik disliked the chaos. The mechanical rides were of particular interest though, if only because of his love for machines. He was rather entranced by them, watching the perpetual motions over and over. At least, until a familiar voice caught his attention. 

“Erik!” The voice called out. Immediately, he turned in the direction of it, “Of all people I expected to see here...you were not among them.”

“Nor was I expecting to see you, Vicomte. Does your brother know that you are here?” Erik replied, leaning over to pin the much younger man with an accusatory glare.

“Philippe?”

“Do you have any other brothers?”

“Well, no, but I-”

Erik couldn’t help but laugh at the young man’s flustered state. Raoul was so very much the opposite of his elder brother.

“When I last spoke to Philippe, I thought he said that you were going to Reims for a few weeks to explore a new business venture...this is the opposite direction,” Erik pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. Raoul awkwardly ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair and glanced behind his shoulder. Erik followed Raoul’s eyes and found a young woman that was watching them from afar. A beautiful, small thing, she was clearly dressed as a performer. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in thick curls and her eyes were an uncommonly vibrant blue.

“I swear that my original intention was to go to Reims,” Raoul quickly explained, “I, I shall give you a full explanation of my actions once we are home in Paris. Please don’t say anything to Philippe.”

“Your brother can hardly fault you for chasing after a woman, given his own personal exploits,” Erik chortled. He knew far more than the young De Chagny likely did of the Comte’s own debauchery. 

“I know, I simply don’t think it completely necessary for him to know of all my affairs at present,” Raoul replied, his tone suddenly sounding so much older.

“Fair enough, Vicomte. I’ll leave you to your affairs, then. Though I do expect the details, as promised,” Erik said, looking forward to the full story.

“Yes. yes of course, we will speak once we are home,” Raoul nodded, taking his leave to once again join his lady friend. Erik watched as they smiled and laughed together. Ah, to be young and in love. Erik had known Raoul for the entirety of the boy’s life, he had always been a bit of an eccentric young man. Incredibly naive, of course, but the boy had a kind, gentle heart.

Erik turned away and continued down the pathway. Getting further and further away from the festivities, the noise seemed to calm. In the distance, he could hear delicate notes pouring from a violin. Inexplicably lulled by the sound, he followed it. 

The tents that now surrounded him were less extravagant; he must have wandered into the camping area for those that lived with the carnival. For a moment, he simply stopped and took in all the small pieces of these people’s lives. With the music from such a talented violinist floating through his mind, it was quite easy to dream of all the details. He imagined what it must be like, the stories they could tell from all their travels. How simple their lives seemed compared to his own, and how much more complicated at the same time. There was definitely a story that could be told on stage in this place. 

And that violin! He had never heard anything like it. He spun around, searching for the musician. His heart stammered in his chest, a strange wash of emotion overwhelming him. Anyone capable of producing such a magnificent sound on such a difficult instrument deserved far more than playing to the empty air. Erik had half a mind to steal them away and put them in a more deserving spot in the opera’s orchestra! He wanted--no,  _ needed  _ to find the gifted violinist. 

He continued to ruminate on his dilemma when the music abruptly stopped. With desperation that caught him off guard, he still searched, hoping to find an echo of such heavenly music on the wind. Instead of hearing the strings, he heard a strange voice. Suspicious, he stood his ground.

“Come here,” the voice called out again with a thick accent that Erik could not immediately recognize. Slowly, he turned.

“Come here, I wish to tell your fortune, it will take precious little of your time,” the voice added. His heartbeat thudded in his head as he looked for the source. 

“Fortune telling is a waste of time,” he replied, still unsure of the direction the voice was coming from. He was far too focused on the sound, the odd, dreamlike quality of that voice to tell where it was. He became rather certain that the one who possessed the voice was also responsible for the violining. 

“Ah, but it is all in good fun. That is what these festivals are all about in the end, yes?” The voice asked with a small, feminine laugh. Slowly, Erik turned around and found the source. A dark tent, separated from the others. A person, draped in a torn, gray cloak sat at a small table. On that table sat a collection of carved, polished stones...and the violin. The figure behind the table wore a mask that appeared to be made of black silk. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was speaking to some sort of ghostly apparition. 

“I’m not about to spend money on such foolishness,” Erik scoffed.

“I never said anything about money, monsieur. It’s about my fun as much as it is yours, honestly,” The figure shrugged. Erik stared at the ghostly shadow, trying to guess where her eyes were.

“And why on Earth would I play along with such a childish game?” He asked, folding his arms behind his back in an attempt to hide his growing frustration.

“Because you are curious. I can see it in your eyes, monsieur. If you truly wanted to leave, you would have done so already, ” The shadow leaned back in her chair and made a gesture that Erik could only interpret as a shrug.

His temper flaring, he could not seem to find words that were polite. He bit his tongue to keep his impeccable manners in check. He couldn’t let her know that she was correct, his curiosity was currently getting the better of him. He was hanging on her every word. The girl noticed his discomfort. She tilted her masked face while she observed him.

“How about this, then. If I can guess your name, you can see my performance this evening for half the price. If I guess incorrectly, you can see the show for free. You’ll see a great deal more of my skills as a musician if you come,” She offered. Silence fell between them again as Erik deliberated. 

“Fine,” he agreed with a sigh. This would, at the very least, make an interesting story to tell at the next gala, the odd shadow girl with her odd voice and odd skill with a violin. Erik took a step closer to the figure. He paid more intensive attention to the lines carved on her stones. He vaguely remembered seeing something similar in his studies. Nordic runes, he thought.

“You will not regret it, I promise,” she said, her own excitement creeping into her voice. Her hands came forward, poking out from her cloak. Erik watched with morbid fascination as she picked up each of the stones on the table and moved them in her palms. Her hands looked ancient, grayish skin pulled taut over her bones. The sight did not match the youthful sound of this creature’s voice.

“I already regret it,” he pointed out, though that was not the truth. His feet were firmly planted here now and Erik could hardly explain why. Was it her voice or her music? So strange, so unlike anything he had ever heard before? Was it the sight of her odd hands? Or the mystery of the mask? He cared not to dissect his thoughts.

She carefully placed each stone back on the table and shifted them around, arranging them in a particular pattern. Finally, she spoke again when four stones were lined up in front of her.

“Ehwaz, your bonds of friendship are unbreakable. Raidho, you long for a journey. For freedom and renewal. Isaz, you command authority. Kenaz, that authority comes from the fact that you bring light wherever you go.”

He could not hold back a bitter scoff. What inane nonsense was this girl going on about? He had followed until the end. Bringing light? How ridiculous. All of his contemporaries would agree that he was of the darkest, most sour disposition.

“Let me finish,” she insisted, interjecting with calm authority of her own.

“This is asinine,” he grumbled. She continued with her assessment, ignoring his displeasure.

“Mighty and distinguished, yours is the name of a king, Erik.”

If he had been any less of a composed and collected man, his jaw would have dropped at her final words. Instead, he only stared at her, the shock clearly hiding behind his harsh eyes.

“The name my mother gave me was Charles,” he smirked, proving the strange woman wrong. She shook her head and a few pieces of her white hair came free from the hood of her cloak. 

“Erik suits you far better, I think.”

“What do you know, it wasn’t a real guess. You could have easily overheard a friend of mine call me by that name a few minutes ago, thus proving all this fortune telling nonsense to be exactly that. Nonsense,” Erik said, his arrogance dripping from every word. She could only laugh at him.

“Perhaps I did overhear your friend,” she agreed with him, gathering her stones off the table and dropping them back into a small velvet pouch. She stood up from her seat, “But you’re going to come to my performance anyway.” With a flick of her thumb, she threw one of the stones at him. Without thinking, he caught it. He turned it over in his palm and noted it was the stone she called raidho.

“Give that to the boy taking admissions. He’ll recognize it,” she explained and Erik could have sworn he saw her lips move into a smile behind the dark fabric of the mask. She gathered the violin and bow off the table and disappeared into her tent.

And Erik was left alone, staring at the tent where she had just been. He had half a mind to rip the thing down and confront the girl inside. The thought was surely tempting...but his feet stayed in place. He didn’t dare invade her privacy in such a way. He would never stoop to that level of monstrous.

But he almost threw that damn stone back at her. The only reason he decided to still attend her little performance was that he needed a decent conclusion to this story when he told it to all the silly socialites. Having the story end after this odd creature had practically begged him to attend her show? That simply would not do.

When he found the small, haphazard stage that she was to be performing on, he got in line to pay the fee. He held the little stone in his palm. The surface of it smooth, aside from the carving, he couldn’t help but continue to caress it. Idylly, as he waited his turn, he looked up at the sky. Quickly, it had gone from blue to orange, various shades of pink and yellow intermingled with the sparse clouds.

“10 francs, sir,” the boy at the entrance said, breaking Erik out of his trance. He looked down at the stone in his hand...and deposited it in his own pocket. He couldn’t explain what had possessed him to keep it. It was a souvenir. He imagined it belonged to a matched set, perhaps keeping it would be an inconvenience to that ghostly woman.

Especially when the price for the show was so inconsequential to him. He reached into a different pocket and handed the boy an indeterminate amount of money that was obviously far too much. As Erik walked away, the boy tried to stop him.

“Sir! This is 100 francs, the fee is not--”

“Keep it. It matters little to me,” he muttered, continuing on. The boy was left in such a state of shock that he nearly forgot to take coins from the next few people in line.

Erik took a seat towards the back. Regardless of class and money, he found it discourteous for someone of his height to sit in the very front, where he’d certainly be a hindrance to the viewers behind him. He focused on the stage, bathed in the warm glow of the sunset. The show would be starting soon; he could see that her violin was sitting toward the edge of the makeshift platform.

The jagged, clashing fabrics of the curtain rustled. A man stepped out, dragging something behind him. As he came into the light, as did his cargo. Erik recognized the cloak. That limp thing being pulled out was that girl...and she just hung there, unmoving.

Unceremoniously, the man threw her down to the stage with an echoing thunk. Erik watched her fall, limbs landing splayed in an unnatural way. She...she appeared to be dead. Why on Earth had she invited him to such a display? Whispers traveled through the crowd as they also speculated what was going on. Erik wanted to stop this at once. His nails dug into his knees as he tensed, getting ready to make a stand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have quite the spectacular sight to see for you today!” The man started, immediately hushing the whispers with the sound of his loud, dramatic voice.

“Unlike anything else at our faire, this is something truly remarkable! A scientific wonder, a modern mystery! This creature here appears to be completely devoid of life!” He punctuated his speech by kicking the cloaked body hard enough for it to make a sound. 

“But I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this creature is not dead. What’s that you say? Impossible? No, no. This creature is neither alive or dead, it is something in between!” He paused to allow the audience to digest his words. “Far, far to the North, where the sun burns at midnight all summer and the moon glows in the morning all winter...that is where this creature was discovered. The ancients called them the draugr, undead monsters sent to torment the living! But this one...this one has been tamed, at least as much as a feral beast can be…” As the man’s word’s faded, a terrible shrieking sound came forth from the undead creature laying upon the stage. It was all an act, Erik reminded himself. She had allowed that man to hit her for the act. His worries aroused over simple showmanship. At least, he tried to tell himself that. He remained unsettled.

Suddenly, the figure moved from her spot. One after another, her arms reached forth from her cloak, shooting out at odd, broken looking angles. One hand grasped the violin. The other took the bow. And then, with an obviously well practiced motion, the creature stood and positioned the violin at her chin.

She was wearing a different mask, now. This one made of wood and iron, it looked heavy and uncomfortable...but it certainly added to the ancient mystery of this performance. 

She started to play. Erik found himself sitting on the edge of his uncomfortable seat, watching her with morbid fascination. He had recognized her skill when he had only heard her, but now, seeing her pale fingers masterfully dance across the strings left him entranced. The song was nothing he recognized before, though it made the clear impression of being as seemingly ancient as the rest of this odd tale. The melodies would stay in his mind long after this, that he already knew.

As soon as she had started, she had finished as well and the show continued on.

She handed the violin and bow off to the man on stage with her. He held them both in one hand and used the other to pull her hood off the top of her head, fully revealing her mask...and her shock of bright, white hair. She made another shriek and stomped on the stage, lunging towards the audience to scare them.

How old was this creature, exactly? Judging by the sound of her voice earlier, she had sounded like a young woman. Or at the very least, a woman young enough to not have such blindingly white hair.

“A talented little monster, isn’t it?” The man laughed. She stood there, unmoving, waiting. The man reached for her again and this time, undid the clasp on her cloak. With nothing holding it on her gaunt frame, it slipped from her shoulders and cascaded down and pooled on the stage.

In the orange sunlight, she was revealed. Beaded braids framed her masked face. Her clothes hung off her body, enhancing her terribly skeletal appearance. Some sort of animal pelt was hanging off one of her shoulders. Her chest was covered by a kind of breast plate; she looked like an old norse warrior, truly risen from the dead. There was even a trophy skull hanging from her belt.

“This draugr is talented with far more than the violin, though. You will not believe your eyes! True magic will be seen upon this stage! Beyond that of this creature’s state between life and death!”

At that, the man took a step back and the girl took that as her cue to move on. One after another, she started performing small sleight of hand tricks. Erik recognized most of them easily, he had performed a great deal of these in his youth. Still, they were nothing to scoff at. Her tricks grew more complicated until she finished the segment with what appeared to be a ball of fire illuminating the inside of her trophy skull, bringing it back to life. When the flames dissipated and she was clearly unharmed, a man near the front of the audience decided to make a nuisance of himself.

“Take off the mask! We want to see its face!” He shouted. For the first time of the show, Erik saw the girl break her character. It was almost imperceptible, but as a man with as much experience with those on stage as he, it was obvious. Her posture fell. Her shoulders slumped and she looked away and towards the ground. It was something she clearly didn’t want to do, want to show. And then she recovered, just like that. What else could she be hiding?

“All in good time, my faithful friend!” Her stage companion laughed. She looked out at the crowd, her attention wavering from what was happening. She was searching for something...and she found Erik.

For the first time that day, he truly saw her eyes. The vibrant light of dusk hit them just right behind the mask and they glowed through the shadow. Each appeared to be a different color, though that could easily be a trick of the light. Erik stared back, wondering why she would pick him out of the crowd. Why she would choose him on which to ground herself to. She had been so confident when they had spoken alone. Now, he sensed that this poor girl was about to crack and crumble.

The man on stage with her continued to drone on about the supposed mythology of this special creature. She continued to stare at Erik, until she interrupted the other man’s story about Glámr the draugr. She started to sing. The man tried to finish his story, raising his voice over hers, attempting to cover up the fact that she had intentionally started the last part of the show a few minutes too soon.

The sound of her voice, however, drowned out all other sounds in the immediate area. Birds stopped singing, insects stopped buzzing. When this little draugr girl sang, even the wildlife stopped to listen. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer intensity of her song.

Erik could not find any adequate words to describe the sound pouring forth from her thin, pale throat. If she was merely talented with the violin, her voice was that of a goddess. Or an entrancing demon, or an angel. With every cascading note, her voice grew in strength and ferocity. And he could not breathe. He clutched at his chest, willing air to fill his lungs. His heart seized and he hoped for the traitorous muscle in his chest to resume beating as it should.

Instead, he was hypnotized by the strange pull of her, strangely content with the possibility of imminent death. He never wanted to hear anything else but her voice ever again. No music would ever compare to hers. The world had been so empty, now it was overflowing with everything all at once. Happiness and joy clashing with the deepest melancholy as if there was no other way to experience them except as a violent cacophony. Nothing could ever be the same, now that he had heard such a sublime sound. Perfection he never could have predicted.

Then, she removed the mask.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_ Paris, 1881 _

“Monsieur Delacroix?” The voice of the conductor invaded his tumultuous thoughts, “What is your opinion on this scene, sir? We have been working so diligently at it.”

Swimming through the muck and back to reality, Erik barely recognized the question. Little by little, he regained his cognizance. Right, yes. Rehearsals at the opera for the upcoming production of Faust. He hadn’t paid enough attention to give a valid critique. Put on the spot, the words that fell from his lips were barely true.

“The violins were sloppy at best and our Méphistophélès needs to mind the fact that he is the Devil and should try a whole lot harder to sound menacing. He sounds like he’s trying to sing Faust to sleep,” Erik barked. There, that would do. He demanded, “Run the scene again!”

The theater filled with various groans and frustrated noises as the cast reset the scene. The players in the orchestra flipped through their pages and sighed. The conductor fixed Erik with a dark glare. He ignored it.

“Hurry along, now, we have plenty more scenes for you all to ruin today,” Erik added, crossing his arms to add to his projected image of displeasure. In situations such as these, he was eternally grateful for his own harsh nature. It made it so much easier to maintain the respect he deserved when his busy mind was currently elsewhere.

Within moments, the orchestra struck up again and the actors on stage took their characters again. Faust started to sing about his sad, lamentable life when the scene was interrupted again.

“Stop this! Stop this now! What are you all doing!?” A shrill female voice cut above all the other sounds. She stomped up on stage. The opera company came to a screeching halt.

“La Carlotta,” Erik growled.

“We were supposed to be rehearsing my scenes this morning! The stage is not even set for my entrance!” She whined. Erik let out a sharp exhale and rubbed at his temples. Of course, today would be the day that Carlotta decided to throw a tantrum over something ridiculous.

“And you, madame, were nowhere to be found when we started. I was not about to waste everyone’s time because of your negligence,” Erik said, his tone even and cool.

“Without me, this production is nothing! Marguerite is the most important role in this opera and it belongs to me! We shall rehearse my arias at once,” Carlotta insisted.

“I think you would have been more aptly cast as Méphistophélès, madame,” Erik shot back with the barest hint of a smirk on his lips.

“How dare you insult me so, Erik Delacroix. You trot about as if your opinions matter,” Carlotta scoffed.

“They do. Now sit down while we finish the scene,” He ordered her.

“We will continue as planned and start with act two,” she persisted with her demands. Erik took a measured breath and spit out one last insult.

“Madame, that would be a truly torturous thing to do, as the truth of the matter is that the company has run out of cotton! Yes, cotton with which to stuff our ears with while you screech about the stage. Until Madame Arnaud returns with an adequate amount, you will sit down and wait your turn.”

Against their better judgement, the chorus girls crowding the wings started to giggle amongst themselves. Carlotta turned and glared at them before she exited the stage.

“Hush!” Erik exclaimed, “We have work to do.”

And so rehearsals continued on in typical fashion. Aside from Erik’s own distracted mind, of course. That, he could do nothing about. As Méphistophélès tempted Faust into a deal on stage, Erik’s thoughts tempted him back to Rouen. He could barely think of anything else. The sound of that girl’s mask dropping to the stage echoed through his mind, over and over.

A hand reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up and found the Comte de Chagny.

“We have business to discuss, Erik,” Philippe said.

“Oh thank God,” Erik sighed and immediately vacated his seat to follow his friend out into the hall.

“Things are not going well, I take it?” Philippe inquired with a smirk.

“I fear that today will finally be the day in which that wretched diva is silenced forever,” Erik growled through gritted teeth. His old friend could only laugh.

“And to think, you used to be so fond of her.”

“Back when she had not yet ruined her voice,” Erik corrected. Philippe laughed again and slapped the back of Erik’s shoulder.

“You have always had a proclivity for a certain kind of woman, Erik.”

“The present moment is not the time to discuss my preferences.”

Knowing that would be the end of that topic, Philippe switched over to more important matters, “The managers have confirmed that the summer gala will be moved up on the schedule by two weeks. I find it absolutely ridiculous.”

“A large sum of money was exchanged, you can hardly be surprised that those imbeciles would do our mysterious benefactor’s bidding,” Erik sighed. As they continued to speak, he reached into his pocket without thinking and withdrew the small stone the faire violinist had thrown to him. He ran his thumb over each line of the carving, the slight bumps and ridges bringing him a strange comfort.

“I find it a peculiar move. There are few people in this world that have that kind of pull,” Philippe explained as the pair of them walked further away from the opera’s stage. The dimmed and dull sounds of the continued rehearsal chased after them.

“You are only perturbed that you are no longer alone in your pull,” Erik pointed out. Philippe’s face fell for a moment, his frustration with his friend growing every second.

“Erik, what is wrong with you? How can you take such a blasé attitude towards this all? Ever since you came back from Boscherville, you’ve been out of sorts,” Philippe stopped moving forward, forcing Erik to stop and acknowledge his statement. Or at least, it was a valiant attempt at it.

“I go to Boscherville every year to pay my respects. This year was no different,” Erik assured Philippe, his eyes flashing with darkness that signaled this part of conversation would now be over, “I am simply worried for the state of our opera because the current production is nothing more than a lamentable mess.” 

Philippe, never one to leave well enough alone, pressed on.

“What if it is Mathias Arctander making an ill-advised grab for power? Would all of this concern you, then?”

“Not at all. If the masses are pleased by his pitiful attempts at showmanship, then it hardly bothers me. He is less talented than Meyerbeer. I would like to believe that Paris has more taste than that,” Erik countered.

“And the new managers are little more than the masses themselves. They hardly know music at all. What if Arctander is after your position? The new managers might just give it to him. For all his faults, the man can be quite charming.”

“I’d be more terrified of his wife, honestly. The man himself is about as charming as a rat.”

“Which is still a great deal more charming than most people find you.”

Erik forced a bitter grin, clenched his fists and tempered his anger with a measured exhale. It always seemed that only Philippe could leave him so speechless. Only Philippe and that mysterious--No, Erik was not going to go back to dwelling on that strange, undead creature. No matter how much the horror was imprinted into his mind.

Philippe knew that Erik would be more than content to let their interaction end there, he continued, “For reasons I cannot fathom, my sister still finds you charming, though. Perhaps you should pay her a visit.”

“Are you finished? This little excursion hardly counted as a business conversation.”

“True, but the company deserved a break from your unflinching criticism,” Philippe grinned as he turned away. Erik refused to acknowledge the comment and instead, stormed back into the auditorium. He took his seat and rehearsals kept going.

His notes for the day were rather lackluster. Erik had found his thoughts drifting again. Instead of brutally demanding nothing but the best from the cast and crew, he was jotting down phrases of music in his head. It was like a puzzle, trying to piece each part of that undead siren’s song together. He couldn’t resist the refuge in his mind...

But as frustration gripped him, Erik started to wonder if Philippe was right, if this ridiculous ploy with the gala was indeed trouble from one of his past rivals. The more he thought about it, the more of a problem it became. Arctander and his vicious harpy of a wife had been awfully quiet in the last few years. Erik had attributed their silence to the last time he had thoroughly embarrassed them on a public stage. 

When Erik had first heard of that downright ridiculous amount of money being gifted to the opera, he had dismissed it as a joke. No one would flaunt such wealth like that around, not even him. No sane managers would accept such a thing without suspicion. His speculations would get him nowhere, though. Even with his reputation for being callous, Erik dared not interrogate the idiot managers to get more clear answers, lest he arouse their suspicions. If it was, indeed, Mathias Arctander rising from the depths of Hell, he certainly wouldn’t keep his presence unknown for much longer.

In the meantime, Erik supposed he would make an attempt at being more courteous with the staff. With all the extra work of changing the gala’s date heaped upon them, there would be an even thicker cloud of tension for everyone to choke on.

Of course, he would never hold back his scathing tongue if it was rightly deserved, though.

After rehearsals, Erik sat in his office, taking care of the pile of papers that had accumulated on his desk. He tried his hardest to focus and deal with such a monotonous task but he couldn’t. He had been making attempts at getting through that growing mountain all week and had been unsuccessful. He propped his elbows on the desk and leaned into his hands, rubbing his temples with annoyance.

If only he could escape those wild melodies and the atrocious visions that accompanied them.

A knock on the door brought a small reprieve.

“Come in,” Erik replied, barely concealing the snarl. Into the room came a trotting Carlotta. Without a word, she primly sat down in front of Erik’s desk.

“Yes?” Erik asked, eyeing her with suspicion.

“My behavior was rather unbecoming of a leading lady today,” she admitted. Erik frowned. Were his ears deceiving him? Was La Carlotta... _ apologizing _ ?

“It was,” Erik agreed with her.

“And your behavior was even more reprehensible, M. Delacroix.”

Erik exhaled, carefully minding his words, “You should not have instigated the situation.”

“The way you spoke to me today, I should refuse to fulfill my contract and should take my prestigious name elsewhere,” Carlotta said.

“Go then. But don’t forget that the reason your name is prestigious in the first place is because of what I’ve done for you,” Erik muttered, looking back down at his papers to appear busy.

“You have always been rather difficult to get along with, but the comments you made today were uncalled for and…” she sighed, “Far more harsh than your usual insults. Something is troubling you.”

“I am fine. There is nothing for you to worry about,” Erik kept flipping through his paperwork. Carlotta stood and smoothed out her skirts. She was finished with him.

“I know you far better than you think I do, Erik. Don’t let it fester,” and with a slam of the door, she left him alone again.

Immediately, Erik threw his pen at the door. Then, a fist was pounded on his desk. There was no escape. He could not run from his thoughts, he could not hide them from those that knew him and he was at his wit’s end.

What was he supposed to tell them?

Would they even believe him?

He hated it admit it but perhaps his oldest friend was correct. Erik decided to call upon Philippe’s sister.

The Chagny estate was an elegant, sprawling place surrounded by more trees than most of the homes in Paris. Also bathed in bright sunlight, it was a much needed refuge from the chaos of the city. It was extravagant, yet perfectly subtle in the decorations and monuments dotting the grounds. Much closer to the middle of the city than his own home, Erik spent a great deal of his time here. It contributed a great deal to all the rumors and gossip of the true nature of his relationships with all the Chagnys. 

Erik cared little about such pointless things. The truth was so much more simple than the city liked to believe. Philippe had been his closest friend for many years. Camille, while she had long since married, used her unflinching optimism as a weapon. Erik had watched Raoul grow up, watched his interests and passions change with age. He had always offered his opinions when the boy needed a guiding voice aside from his brother’s and honestly, Erik thought of the boy as a nephew.

And then there was Delphine. 

Inside the manor, Erik was welcomed by the servants. His presence was hardly questioned. Before he could even ask, one of the maids affirmed that Delphine was upstairs in her study and that she had asked not to be disturbed.

“Ah, but I am hardly a disturbance,” Erik replied. The maid laughed.

“You risk life and limb, sir.”

Erik was willing to take it. He followed the marble staircase upwards, made his way down the hallway and didn’t bother to knock when he entered the study. He knew full well that the room would be empty.

Immediately upon entering, the comforting smell of a library was overwhelming. The walls were lined with books upon books, rare volumes filled the shelves. Fine literature was organized along one wall, writings of history against another. The most extensive collection though, consisted of scientific volumes. On that wall, sat another door that led to Delphine’s small laboratory. Undoubtedly, she was within.

Erik meandered towards the large desk positioned near the windows to investigate what her current project was. She had taken an interest in physics in recent months. Books were stacked in a perfect tower on the desk, advanced studies and notes from the latest insights. Her own notes were neatly arranged beside them and he couldn’t help but take a glance and smile. Her mind was as distracted and noisy as his own and Erik was infinitely fond of her unique brilliance.

The entire family seemed to enjoy bucking the traditions of the aristocracy they had been born into. Out of them all, Delphine certainly ignored them the most and Philippe was more than happy to indulge his younger sister’s passions. Delphine had always loved her science far more than she could ever love anything else.

Not knowing how long she would be conducting experiments behind the door, Erik took one of her volumes. Before he sat down, he patted his pocket to verify that the stone was still there. Anxiety assuaged, he settled down and opened his chosen book. It would be best to fully familiarize himself with the theories and equations that were flowing through Delphine’s mind. Perhaps he also hoped that the fascinating nature of the science would occupy his own thoughts and drown out his latest fixation.

He was successful in his attempt for a short time. Even as he read, that infernal rhythm crept back into his mind and Erik found himself tapping it out against the spine of the book. He couldn’t shake away the sight of that creature’s face. He couldn’t shake the notion that dead things shouldn’t bleed, even when presented with contrary evidence. There was no escape from her. Not from her odd affliction, not from her voice in his head, not for long.

“If you made a mess of my notes, I swear I will cut off your hand,” A harsh voice sliced through the silence of the room. Then, softer she spoke, “I...I wasn’t expecting you today.”

Erik looked up towards the laboratory door and saw her. He couldn’t help a warm, fond smile from creeping to his lips as she stepped into the hazy rays of sunshine. Her messy, dark blonde hair sparkled in the light as it escaped from the chignon at the back of her head. Her clothes were plain and gently stained with the clear marks of her experimentations. She was...remarkable.

“I wasn’t expecting me today,” Erik replied, setting his book to the side and standing up, “And I swear on my violin that your studies have been left untouched.” Delphine grinned and made her way over to him. He always wondered if what he felt for her was love. Or at the very least, the closest thing he could feel to it towards another person. As she loved her science, he loved his music. 

“I admit, it was a pleasant surprise,” she said, “I hope that you were not waiting too terribly long for me.”

“Even if I was, you know that I am perfectly content with my own company,” Erik assured her, reaching up to brush a few of her tempting locks from her sweet, round face. 

“True, all the hours we’ve spent together in complete, peaceful silence,” she agreed.

Erik’s hand settled upon her cheek, his thumb brushing away a smear of dirt, “Whatever you’ve been working on, dearest Dela, you’re currently wearing it.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Oh Erik, I do think it would be quite difficult to wear piezoelectricity,” Delphine protested, “though I do theorize that it might also be contained within the human body. I’ve been pouring over the Curie brothers’ notes and I do believe I am onto something. More importantly though, I believe the Curies failed to predict the converse piezoelectric effect. One needs only to examine the basic mathematics to notice. ”

“I will take your word for it, I admit I have not kept up with these recent scientific advancements as much as you have,” Erik knew better than to argue with her on matters of science.

“Yet, you are still one of the only people that can keep up with me when I go off on a tangent about the relationship between mechanical stress and electrical charge. When I try to share my findings with Philippe or Raoul, they both look at me like I’ve grown a second head,” Delphine sighed, placing her hands along the lapels of his coat.

“I try my best. I’m sure I would do a much better job if the opera did not require so much of my attention.”

“So leave it behind and we shall conduct experiments at all odd hours of the day,” Delphine proposed with a mischievous smirk.

“Dela, I am not sure you would approve of the sort of experiments I would like to conduct,” Erik leaned down and purred in her ear. His hands found her voluptuous hips and pulled her closer. He kissed her temple, her cheek and as she tilted her head back, he kissed her jaw.

“I not only approve of them,” Delphine said, her fingers weaving through his soft, dark hair before harshly gripping him and pulling him down, “I encourage them.” And at that, she clashed their mouths together. Her kiss was fierce and passionate and Erik immediately relented. Seeking a final escape from the draugr’s inevitable pull, Erik allowed himself to indulge in Delphine’s eagerness. Her desires were his desires, after all. They had been engaging in this reckless sort of behavior for far too many years to count.

His teeth teased her bottom lip, her tongue invaded his mouth and a scarce moment later her hands set about untangling the cravat from around his neck. Erik picked her up by the backs of her thighs and slammed her down on top of the desk. The tower of books came toppling over and the loose sheets of paper from her notes fluttered down to the floor.

Erik’s lips continued to attack hers, distracting her from reprimanding him. She clawed at her own skirt, pulling it up and around her waist to give her legs the freedom to wrap around his hips. His hands wandered over her sides and her chest and he wanted nothing more than to just rip these clothes from her sweet, silky skin. But, he reminded himself, patience. 

Instead, he broke their kiss and roughly pulled at her hair, exposing her neck. A small sound escaped Dela’s lips that turned into a full moan the moment Erik painted a long line along her throat with his tongue. It was followed by a sharp bite at her skin and a smooth, sweet kiss to dull the pain. He knew exactly how to undo her.

“As promised, I’ll have your hand for ruining my notes,” Delphine gasped for air, desperately clutching him to her. Erik buried one of his hands beneath her skirts and reached up into the fabric until his fingers could dig into her flesh. He dragged his blunt nails along her skin, teasing her.

“Are you so sure you want my hand, Dela?” He asked, his fingers very near that secret place between her legs, “For such a grave infraction, you might want my mouth instead.”

Before she could answer, Erik dropped down to his knees and kissed the inside of her thigh. Overwhelmed by the sight of her spread legs and the smells and sounds of her desire, it was so easy to lose himself in the raw physicality. It was almost enough to purge his mind of torment…

“A fair trade, I suppose,” Delphine agreed, using her hand to guide his head, “At least if I have your mouth you’ll be forced to be quiet.”

“Now that’s just wishful thinking, my dear.”

And just as he was going to continue, an unceremonious knock on the door interrupted them.

“Mam’selle Delphine?” the urgent sound of the servant’s voice on the other side immediately destroyed all hope of their little escapade moving forward.

“I know that you said that you wished to be left alone today,” the servant continued, “But you also said, you also said that you wished to be notified the moment that your younger brother had returned from his journey. And he has, Raoul has returned.”

“That boy better have a good explanation, being gone for so long and lying about his destination to Philippe,” Delphine muttered. Erik looked up at her with a quirk of his brow. So she knew Raoul was up to something, too.

“I suppose I should mention that I briefly ran into him in Rouen, while I waited for the train back home,” Erik said cooly, pushing himself back up to his feet. Delphine shook her head.

“You should have told me that much sooner,” she grumbled.

“There were more pressing matters, my Dela,” Erik cooed with a smirk, leaning down to kiss her sweetly. She accepted it for a moment, but then pushed him away and fixed him with a glare.

“Send Raoul up here immediately, please,” Delphine said, raising her voice enough so that the girl outside could hear it through the door.

“Right away, mam’selle,” came her reply.

With a sigh, Delphine reached up to fix the damage she had caused to Erik’s cravat. Next, she smoothed out a lock of his hair that had fallen out of place. He looked presentable, again. She slid off the desk and went about readjusting her own clothing.

“Now clean up the mess you made,” She smirked, referring to the books and papers scattered about the floor. Erik rolled his eyes and started restacking the books upon the desk.

When Raoul’s knock came, the pair of them had put everything back in order to Delphine’s satisfaction.

“Come in, Raoul,” she said, taking a seat at the desk. Erik sat down in the arm chair positioned near it.

The door creaked as Raoul opened it. As he stepped into the room, he looked like he had regressed in age by a decade, the way he hung his head.

“Sit,” Delphine ordered, waving a hand towards the unoccupied sofa. Raoul obeyed and crossed his legs in an attempt to mask his anxiety.

“Good afternoon, Dela, how are your projects going?” Raoul asked pleasantly, trying to prolong the inevitable. Erik watched the siblings stare each other down and was infinitely glad that he was an only child.

“Just fine,” she answered, “I’d regale you with all the details but that would take the rest of the day. Which judging by the look on your face, you’d very much like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I am only attempting to show an interest in my dearest older sister’s intellectual pursuits,” Raoul replied, “There’s no reason to be so…”

“You should know by now that Dela isn’t exactly delicate,” Erik interjected with a small laugh, his fondness for her blunt nature showing through.

“I know, I know. I’m only prolonging the inevitable,” the young vicomte sighed, “At the very least, having the two of you here at the same time saves me the breath of explaining myself twice.”

“Start talking, Raoul. You know Philippe will be home soon and he’ll want to see you,” Delphine twined her fingers together and rested her hands on the desk. Her stern demeanor did little to put the younger Chagny at ease.

“I did go to Reims, as planned,” Raoul started, “My business there is settled for now and I’m sure Philippe will be pleased with the outcome.”

“Why were you in Rouen, then? And why are we sworn to secrecy with Philippe?” Dela moved the conversation along. Erik knew full well why Raoul was there. He had seen the way that dark haired dancer girl had looked at him. The impropriety of it would surely cause a scandal...but Erik would not reveal Raoul’s transgressions. That was a story for the boy to tell, if he felt like it.

“You remember Bernard Comtois, yes? He owns a winery in Bordeaux,” Raoul asked.

“Yes, his daughter has gone missing,” Erik affirmed.

“I know where she is,” Raoul confessed. Immediately, Delphine’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared. How long had he been hiding this information? Erik tempered his own shock, instead simply waiting for Raoul to continue.

“Then we shall alert the authorities so that she may be reunited with her family,” Delphine insisted. Raoul nearly jumped from his seat to protest.

“No! That’s why my visit had to be in secret. Annette Comtois does not wish to be found. Hence also why, I’d rather Philippe not know of all this quite yet. Our dearest brother is not the most skilled at keeping secrets,” he explained.

“And what, she propositioned you? Raoul, you’re playing a dangerous game for which there is no pleasant outcome,” Dela warned.

“Annette and I have known each other since childhood. She asked a favor of me and I wanted to assist her. I am well aware of how ludicrous it all sounds but Annette wanted to chase a dream and I only wished to make sure she was safe,” Raoul spoke quickly to speak his peace before Delphine could interject again. Instead, she fell silent. Considering what Erik had seen, Raoul and Annette were not simply childhood friends.

“The responsible thing to do would be to stop involving yourself in these matters at once, Raoul,” Erik spoke, attempting to impart his elder wisdom. “Write to M. Comtois and let him know you have knowledge of his daughter’s whereabouts.”

“You cannot speak of responsibility with me, Erik, when you knocked a man out cold in Rouen.”

Erik turned on Raoul in horror. How did the boy find out about that? Had he been at that performance? Had his little Annette told him?

“Raoul!” Delphine scolded.

“Such a scene was made, I’m honestly surprised it is not splashed all over Paris’ newspapers,” Raoul added, explaining himself. Erik bit his tongue, attempting to keep his anger in check.

“Is this true?” Dela tilted her head Erik to inquire, her voice a touch softer than it had been with her brother.

“The man in question certainly deserved it. He was engaging in exceptionally cruel behavior and I could not stand by and watch,” Erik growled, filling the room with his own tense darkness. 

“What did he do?” Delphine asked, her brows knitted with curiosity. When Erik didn’t immediately respond, Raoul opened his mouth to relay the tale he had heard. And the sight of it was enough to undo Erik’s temper. He bolted to his feet.

“I do not owe anyone an explanation of the events that transpired,” he snarled, “Good day.” He made a break towards the door. Raoul snapped up to block Erik’s exit. 

“Wait!” Raoul exclaimed. Erik looked down at the boy with such violent hatred that Raoul stumbled on his words. “I was going to call on you tomorrow to give it to you but Annette asked me, she wanted me to give you this.” He pulled a small, velvet pouch from his coat and offered it to Erik. Erik stared at it like it was made of fire. Such an innocuous thing that filled him with fury, as if Raoul’s little runaway Annette could possibly know Erik at all. Why she would give something--

“It’s not from her, she said,” Raoul added, when Erik still had not taken the pouch. “Annette said that you’d know who it was from.”

With his heartbeat thundering in his head, Erik debated what to do. Take the small gift or abscond without it. His instinct screamed at him to just leave. He needed to escape before he unintentionally did something he’d truly regret. Still, his feet remained planted in place as if they knew something he consciously didn’t. 

His hand also seemed keen to betray him, as he swiped the pouch from Raoul’s hand. Just like that, his paralysis was lifted and Erik left. He tucked the velvet pouch in the same pocket he had been keeping the raidho stone. He ran through the estate, ignoring all the stares and comments from the servants; every continued moment spent indoors felt suffocating. 

The first breath he took outside felt like the first he had ever taken. With it, came a crashing combination of relief and a loud flood of memories that he had been trying to push aside. All day, he had been running from his thoughts. All day, he had been trying to purge her face, her voice from his mind. Now, that day replayed in his mind, over and over and over.

That man at the faire had deserved a whole lot worse than a knocked out tooth and blessed unconsciousness.

Erik kept running, caring little if he made a spectacle of himself on the public streets. He hardly knew where he was going, following some latent instinct, until he saw the spire of Notre Dame against the pale orange clouds in the distance. His unexpected destination was on the Île de la Cité.

He ran until every part of him ached and he could no longer force himself to continue. He barely gave himself a chance to recover, he kept walking at a brisk, almost panicked pace. This, he thought, this would have to bring him solace.

He wanted to lose himself in her voice. He wanted to tell himself that he could just hear it one more time and be satisfied but Erik already knew that was a lie. He wanted to hear her sing unencumbered. He wanted to hear her sing and not have her song be interrupted by horrible taunts and jeers.

The cathedral’s bells began to signal the hour as Erik traveled across the Pont au Change. The deep vibrations reverberated through his every bone. With each ring, another vision violently assaulted him. The girl throwing the runestone at him before turning away. That man throwing her to the stage. The girl holding that skull up to the sunlight. A woman turning away and retching as she saw the girl’s naked face. The mask of wood and iron nearly sliding off the stage as it fell from her hand.

The draugr girl had kept singing, even as the audience started to gasp and scream. She looked out towards the horizon, trying to maintain her focus. Erik had certainly seen deformed people before...but he had never seen anything that compared to this horror.

Her skin was pale and yellow and green, stretched so thin over her bones that it created the illusion that she hardly had skin at all. Thick scars were spattered across her hollow cheeks. In the center, where there should have been a pointed little nose, sat nothing at all except a gaping hole.

It was hard to believe such a thing could even be alive. Which is why Erik found himself at the city morgue. At this time of day, the crowds had mercifully started to disperse. The attendants all greeted him by name and welcomed him back. Like all Parisiens, Erik came to peer at the dead put on display fairly regularly. Normally, he helped speculate how these unknown people had died but today he came with a rather singular purpose.

He forced himself to stare at them, stare at their various states of rot and decay. Bloated and empty, these bodies were repugnant. Skin falling off the bones. Deep, festering wounds filled with blackish ooze.

Erik stepped from corpse to corpse, studying them intensely. One man had gashes across his face that were reminiscent of the girl. One woman had skin that was bruised and discolored, the skin of her lips was blue and cracked, the flesh now eating away at itself. Another man, who must have been affected by a terrible bout of gangrene, barely had any nasal tissue left, leaving a dark tunnel of putrid flesh behind. Erik tried to stitch these things together in his mind, wanting to grasp an image that he could not fathom.

All these dead bodies were horrifying and yet beautiful in their uniquely morbid ways. They were at rest and they were peaceful, despite the agonized expressions on half of their dead faces.

And they were not as ugly as that undead girl.

Erik was still convinced that he had only seen her in an elaborate nightmare. That somehow, he had conjured her up and given her such a haunting voice. But if Raoul had known about his encounter with her, it must have meant that she was truly real.

A truth that Erik already knew, deep down. Forgetting his place, he banged his fist against the glass, rattling it in the frame. He wanted this corpse to just open her eyes so that he could possibly see those strange, mismatched eyes full of so much hope and so much sadness staring back at him.

Instead, all he had were his memories.

He remembered how the crowd immediately turned on her. How she stood up there, singing through their terror. They gasped and screamed and begged her to put the mask back on but she still stood there, intent to finish her song.

Then, the man in front that had begged for her to take the mask off in the first place, started throwing stones at her.

_ “You’re a horrible monster!” _ He shouted. The first stone hit her in the shoulder and she did not flinch. A knot formed in Erik’s throat instantly. for how used to stones must one be to not even notice.

_ “It can’t be alive, can it?”  _ another person chimed in. 

_ “The master said that it wasn’t! This is sorcery! Nothing but witchcraft! It should be burned, not put on display!” _ Another scandalized voice joined the fray.

The next thrown rock hit her in the forehead and for Erik, that was the final straw. He bolted from his seat and headed towards the stage. More of the audience joined in, throwing anything they could get their hands on towards the stage. Erik focused on the man that had started it all, he tried to block out everything else but could not help but notice the streak of bright, red blood that had started to drip down the side of her ugly face. The contrast was striking against her pallid skin, next to her white hair and falling into her costume. And still she sang.

Dead things don’t bleed.

She was alive. She was  _ alive  _ and no matter how horrible she was to look upon, Erik saw no reason she should be treated with such mindless cruelty.

Before Erik reached the front, the man managed to throw one more stone. This time, she caught it. Erik had looked up at her, seeing her magnificent, horrified eyes. She held that sharp rock in her skeleton’s hand and drew it back, readying herself to throw it back at her assailant. Erik shook his head at her.  _ No _ , he tried to silently say with his gaze. Her arm fell just as Erik lifted his own.

The heckling man never saw Erik’s fist coming at all. The first hit sent one of the man’s teeth flying. The second sent him tumbling to the ground. 

_ “I will not just sit here and watch this poor creature be harmed for nothing more than existing,” _ Erik had bellowed, turning towards the crowd. Complete silence washed over them all, so thoroughly shocked by what had happened. Erik looked back at the girl, the sun creating a halo around her shining, braided white hair and death’s head.

_ “Tell me, what is your name? You guessed mine, it is only fair that I learn of yours,” _ Erik asked her, his voice kind and gentle. He had no idea what had possessed him to ask that question. In hindsight, he should have simply stolen her off the stage and ferried her back to Paris with him, where he could protect her. Revere her as some sort of goddess of the dead.

She was as silent as the crowd. She stepped forward and kneeled down to retrieve her mask...and then she was gone. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, maybe she had truly been magical but Erik did not remember how exactly she had left the stage.

He had spent his remaining hours in Rouen looking for her. She was nowhere to be found. Erik convinced himself then that it had been nothing more than a dream...a demented delusion constructed from the horrid stresses of his day in Boscherville.

If he kept telling himself that, perhaps it would become the truth.

Except now, still standing in the middle of the morgue, staring at the corpses, Erik had never been more certain of anything. That undead girl really existed. She had not been a figment of his overactive imagination and he wanted her--No,  _ needed _ her in a way that he could not explain. He needed her voice. Needed to hear her sing, needed to protect such a flawless, ethereal sound, no matter how ugly the source.

As the morgue attendants started ushering the last few living souls out of the building, Erik remembered the small pouch Raoul had given him. Could it have been from the girl? It was plausible, given that Annette was also a performer....

Unwilling to waste another moment, Erik stood outside the morgue and dug through his pockets for the gift. He certainly didn’t notice the poster plastered on the wall beside him, announcing the carnival’s next destination.

The pouch had more weight to it than it seemed. Erik pried the drawn strings apart and emptied the contents into his hand. Three stones and a small piece of folded paper.

Three stones that he instantly recognized. He rearranged them in his palm, making sure each of the carvings on them was facing up. His heart raced and he fished in that same pocket for the last stone and placed it with the rest. Ehwaz, raidho, isaz, kenaz. His name in her strange, ancient runes.

The last piece of the gift, Erik unfolded the paper and found a small message written in a hasty hand.

_ My name is Christine.  _


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_ Rouen, France, 1881 _

The scraps of sleep she had managed to acquire did nothing but make her more anxious. Heart racing, Christine awoke from another nightmare gasping for air. She shot up from her tattered blankets and rushed from the safety of her tent. It was too confined, too suffocating and she needed the crisp, outside air to calm her.

She neglected to put on her mask.

In the darkness, she would be safe from prying eyes. Someone catching an errant glimpse of her ugly features was honestly the least of her concerns. She didn’t stray far from her tent, her bare feet padding through the long grass surrounding it. Still, her heart pounded and her anxiety refused to dissipate, even as the coolness of night washed over her.

She ran her skeletal fingers through her thick, white hair in a small attempt to calm herself. She rubbed at her face, forgetting about the still healing gash on her forehead. She let out an exasperated sigh, frustrated with herself when nothing worked.

After nearly a decade, Christine would be returning to Paris today. For a long time, she had pretended that the place did not exist, for it held too many painful memories. But as she had grown, she could no longer ignore the unsettled strings in her soul. 

Her father had been murdered in Paris and it had been her fault. Her fault, because a man had decided that she was an abomination that didn’t deserve to live. Her fault, because her father had decided to make sure she’d survive.

The memories from that night still haunted her, infecting her thoughts and her dreams and they had sent her on this fool’s errand in the first place. As much as she had tried to suppress it, Christine had found that she could not rest until she  confronted the killer. She didn’t know what she would do once she found him. The darkest part of her heart longed to get revenge, it seemed only fitting to steal his life but Christine also questioned her ability to go through with it. It was an abstract thought that felt good in the moment, but even the thought would eat her alive with guilt. Ultimately, figuring out what she would do to the man that killed her father seemed so secondary to finding him in the first place. 

It had taken almost two years to get this far. Until now, the goal had been simple. Get to Paris. Suddenly, her mad quest became much more tangible with the city nearly in her reach. Her mind gnawed on all of the new possibilities. What if she couldn’t find anything? What if this led to nothing at all? And more terrifying yet, what if it did?

Everything was still and silent around the camp, except Christine, who was still pacing. She chewed at her already jagged fingernails. She ached to consult her stones, the divination within them would be a comfort. Even if their message was largely reversed, it was still a direction. A warning on how to proceed. 

But alas, her set was still not complete. Christine still had one more stone to carve after gifting four of her stones away. She hoped they had made it to their intended recipient. She’d forever be grateful for what that strange man,  _ Erik _ , had done for her.

Seeing the first glimpse of the orange sun on the horizon, Christine returned to the privacy of her tent with the intention of finishing her stones. There were many hours left between now and when she’d be expected to be boarding the train to Paris. She sat down amongst her mess of blankets and gathered her supplies. She laid her white runecloth down beside her and emptied the pouch containing the stones onto it.

Her set of runes had been cobbled together through the years. Once upon a time, they had all matched but not now. In her travels, Christine had lost many of them and they’d been replaced with whatever had been available. Now, they told a colorful story of her adventures. 

The stone that would become her new kenaz was an interesting turquoise color. Christine honestly couldn’t remember where she had gotten the blank stone, but she knew she’d always have the memory of carving it on the morning of her return to Paris. She took a small, sharp knife and started to work.

Like a woman possessed, Christine was utterly consumed by her task. It was rhythmic and calming, it allowed her mind to wander elsewhere towards thoughts that were not so concerning compared to her nightmares and anxiety. She wondered if her path would once again cross with the mysterious Erik’s. Surely, he was a parisien and an ally that was willing to knock a man unconscious on her behalf would be useful in the coming hunt. That was wishful thinking at it’s finest, though it brought a small smile to her lips. In as big a city as Paris, the odds were stacked against her running into him again but still she hoped that perhaps...perhaps there’d be more people like him there.

By the time she was satisfied with the cuts on the stone, the sun was bright overhead and beaming through the seams of her tent. Christine added the finished stone to the pile and then gathered them all in her hands. She felt the smooth coolness reach into her as her own energy flowed into them. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to feel the divine magic swirling between the stones and her consciousness and then slid them all back in their pouch. With her left hand, she drew three stones and laid them down on the casting cloth before opening her eyes again to see the result.

Uruz reversed, raidho, kenaz. Christine should have foreseen that cast.

She leaned forward and studied the three stones, stitching together the meaning of them. Uruz reversed suggested that she had held herself back in the past, lacking the confidence to truly proceed. There was bitter truth to that. Perhaps she would have pursued her father’s killer sooner if she hadn’t been so convinced that one little skeleton girl couldn’t do much. Raidho sitting beside the uruz meant that she needed to act now, or forever let the opportunity pass her by and the realization of that sat in her gut and ran a chill down her spine. 

The more obvious meaning of raidho was that her journey to Paris today would go as planned and the kenaz in the last spot was an optimistic message. A new start, a monumental change--

“Christine! Are you even awake? You are the last tent sitting out in the field, everyone is going to be heading to the train station soon!” A slightly panicked voice cut through Christine’s analysis and startled her.

“What!?” she shrieked, knowing the voice belonged to Annette, the one person in the company that seemed to be able to tolerate her eccentricities. “I’m awake, I just, I got distracted by something and--”

“I’m coming in to help you pack up,” Annette insisted and she very nearly waltzed right in but Christine let out another screech in warning.

“Hold on! I’m not, I don’t have my mask on and I have to find it!” Christine realized in that moment that she had no idea where amongst her clutter the thing was. The anxious lump she had just gotten out of her throat was now sitting there again as she tore through her things.

“I don’t care about that, I wish you’d let go of that silly rule,” Annette huffed from outside, “I’m not so shallow that I’ll stop talking to you if I see your face.”

“That’s easy to say when you’ve never seen my face,” Christine grumbled, shaking out her blankets. Honestly, how could she have misplaced her mask of all things?

“I could just come see your show once we’re in Paris,” Annette said airily, teasing more than anything.

“And I’ve shown you all my tricks and all my songs, it's practically the same!” 

“But then you’d have no more secrets.”

“I still have plenty of secrets besides that!. Let me be selfish with this one thing because I enjoy talking to someone that actually bothers using my name,” Christine’s tone grew more frantic. With no sign of her mask in the pile of her belongings, Christine grabbed the first thing that could be used to cover her face. Her red scarf. She hesitated for a moment, the hazy memories of the day it flew into the sea coming back to her. That boy had run out into the water to fetch it for her…

Before that fateful encounter, Christine hadn’t known how terrible her deformities were, her father had kept her in the dark for her own good. She had needed to watch that boy’s soaked, proud grin turn into unimaginable horror for the reality to truly dawn on her.

Christine wrapped the scarf around her face tightly and tied it, hoping it would make due for now, haphazard as it was. It still left her forehead exposed but the most important thing was to keep her lack of nose concealed. She crawled out of the tent to see Annette standing there, looking out of place from the rest of the performers. Even though the other girl had run away from that life, it was obvious she was from the upper class just from the way she carried herself.

“Oh Christine, you’re not even dressed yet!” Annette exclaimed, looking her friend up and down.

“...I’m...not?” Christine questioned, fully believing that she had at some point, put her traveling clothes on. Until she looked down and realized she was still in barely more than her chemise and pantaloons. She sighed, “I’m not. I’m not dressed yet.”

“It’s very unlike you to completely lose track of time,” Annette fixed the other girl with a suspicious look of concern.

“I’m fine. I’ll...explain once we’re on the train. I’m going to get dressed and...could you help me gather my things?” Christine asked, her pleading expression more obvious with the scarf only covering the bottom half of her face.

“You trust me enough for that?” Annette paused, her bright blue eyes wide and shocked.

“I don’t really have a choice if I want to make it to the train on time,” Christine relented. “Just keep an eye out for my mask while you’re packing, the black one. I seem to have misplaced it.”

“I don’t know, Christine, I rather like the red scarf,” a wide smile spread across Annette’s face and the draugr could only shake her head.

“It leaves half my face completely exposed!” Christine exclaimed, her normally melodious voice shrill. She ducked back into her tent to grab her skirts and bodice, the few articles of clothing she had managed to set aside from her mess.

“It’s not that horrible,” Annette assured her friend. Christine groaned, giving up on this pointless argument.

As Christine started rushing to dress herself, Annette started to pack. She threw on her petticoats and her skirt, the dark blue fabric a comfort, even if these clothes were starting to be at the end of their life. Christine didn’t bother with wearing a corset like most other women, what was the point? Her waist was already smaller than most could ever hope to achieve. No matter how much she ate, her body always seemed to retain that skeletal thinness.

“You might need these,” Annette poked her head out of the tent for a moment and set Christine’s shoes out on the grass.

“Right. Those are helpful,” Christine admitted as she wrestled with her bodice. These clothes had clearly been meant for a younger girl, once upon a time. They were too tight in some places, too big in others and the sleeves were far too short for Christine’s long, bony arms. Still, she had made due with this dress for a while now. Even if she could have afforded a tailored dress with her meager earnings, Christine wouldn’t have bothered to spend her money on something like that.

She bent down to put on her boots and immediately, her mess of snowy hair fell into her face and obscured her vision. She tried to push it back with her hands but the attempt was rather futile.

“Have you found my brush yet?” Christine called out to Annette. Right on cue, the other young woman’s hand shot out of the tent, holding the offending, misplaced brush. Christine grabbed it and held it under her chin as she tapped her toes into her boots and loosely tied them.

Little by little, she was becoming more presentable to those outside the world of the faire. As far as a living corpse could be presentable, in any case. She took the brush and started working out the knots in her hair. Quickly, she pulled the brush through, getting it tangled, ripping out the snags and grimacing from the slight pain at her scalp. The scarf was in the way, she was too short on time to properly care for her hair. As soon as it was the barest minimum of manageable, Christine tied it back with a ribbon in some sort of style that resembled a bun. She’d fix it later.

Annette emerged from the tent, holding the black silken mask and Christine’s runestones in one hand, her violin case in the other. 

“You’re done already?” Christine questioned, taking the stones and the mask and putting them in her pockets. She slung the violin case around her back. These were all her only true essentials. Everything else Annette had packed into her trunk was largely superfluous.

“It’s not my best work,” Annette admitted, “but all that’s left is the tent itself now.” Knowing the care the other girl took with her own things, Christine already knew that Annette probably did a better job at organizing her belongings than Christine would have done herself.

“A miracle worker, truly,” Christine smiled big enough that it managed to reach her eyes. The two set to work at finishing packing the rest, though Annette had to stop and look Christine up and down, fully examining the woman’s clothes.

“Once we’re in Paris, we have to get you a new dress,” she insisted. Christine scoffed.

“That isn’t exactly my highest priority,” Christine insisted.

“Oh, but it would be so much fun!” Annette clapped her hands together, “Didn’t you get paid a little extra? I know that M. Delacroix paid a truly exorbitant amount to see your show.”

“M. Delacroix?” Christine questioned as she straightened the thick fabric of her tent and started to fold it. Annette grabbed the other end and helped.

“Erik,” she clarified and Christine’s eyes widened before she could stop them and she stammered over her next words.

“Ah. Well. No, I got my standard fee. You know how Santiago is,” Christine explained with a sigh.

“Doesn’t it bother you? I know the way he talks to you, you deserve more than double.” Annette asked. 

“It does...but it also doesn’t. Despite everything, he has always paid me the full amount of what we agreed to. No more, no less. It’s better treatment than most men bother with when dealing with me,” she shrugged.

“That’s incredibly sad, Christine,” Annette frowned as the pair of them finished taking down the tent and packing it away.

“It’s simply the reality of my existence. Besides, Santiago and the faire were always just a means to an end for me. And the end is nearly here.”

Each of the women took a handle on the side of Christine’s trunk and started hauling it towards where the rest of the company was still loading the last remnants of luggage. 

“What do you mean, the end is near?” Annette asked, unable to hide the worry in her bright, blue eyes.

“My goal was always to make it back to Paris,” Christine admitted.

“So you’re not going to be traveling with us after?”

“It’s far more complicated than that!” Christine insisted, “Now hush, Santiago is coming.” Sure enough, the man was approaching, his two favorite henchmen flanking his sides.

“You’re always so cryptic!” Annette grumbled as the man approached them. They set down the crate, needing a rest if they were going to stand there and talk to the faire’s master.

“Why isn’t all of your face covered, corpse?” Santiago didn’t even bother with a greeting.

“I thought a little sunburn on my forehead would be a nice touch to my next performance,” Christine said without missing a beat. Annette bit her lips together, suppressing a laugh.

“Is that so?” He questioned, a devil’s grin forming on his thin lips behind his mustache. He raised a hand and the back of it came crashing down, right across Christine’s half exposed, bony cheek. The hit landed with a thud, Annette screeched at the sudden, violent action and rushed to intervene. Christine barely faltered. “That should give you a sufficiently ugly bruise. Now cover yourself, little monster.”

“Why do--” Annette started to question, but Christine shushed her by jabbing her in the side with her elbow. 

“Is this better?” Christine asked, pulling the scarf over her entire face, right up to her hairline. It obscured her vision and left her looking quite ridiculous. Santiago ignored her quip and Christine quickly fixed her scarf so she could see again.

“I just wanted to let you know, creature, you will be riding in cargo,” The man smirked. Christine remained impassive, she had expected him to pull something of that nature.

“That’s ludicrous! If I help her, we’ll both have more than enough time to make it into the city by foot!” Annette protested before Christine could get her to shut her mouth.

“Ah, ah, little dancer, that is my other order of business this morning,” he laughed at her outburst. “You have a very promising future with us, but there are many things we need to discuss now that we are headed to Paris.” He grabbed Annette by the arm and pulled her away from Christine’s side.

“I’ve done all the things you’ve asked!” Annette protested, trying to release herself.

“And you’re still barely making us any money at all, but soon that will change,” his grin was dangerous and threatening as he turned his attention back to Christine. With a wave of his other hand, the two strongmen at his sides seized the draugr. Immediately, Christine started thrashing, kicking and trying to escape their grip.

“What are you doing?” She screeched, “Let me go!”

Santiago sighed, as if it were obvious. “I said that you would be riding in cargo, little monster.”

“That has nothing to do with--” Christine snarled, still fighting to no avail.

“In cargo. In a cage. Like you belong.”

At the word cage, her kicking grew more frantic as she twisted and screamed.

“You can’t! You can’t put me in a cage! I’ve always listened, I’ve never gone out of line, you  _ can’t _ !” She screamed, the betrayal clear in her eyes.

“Let her go!” Annette shouted, trying to pry Santiago’s fat fingers from her arm. “She doesn’t have to be in a cage!”

“Therein lies half your problem, girl,” Santiago laughed. As Christine continued to fight out of the grips restraining her, the motion jostled her scarf and the fabric bunched up at her neck, exposing her horrible, ugly features for all to see.

Annette gasped, fear spreading across her pretty face. She tried to turn away from the sight she had never seen before but Santiago forced her to look. His free hand bit into her chin and jaw as he yanked her face back towards the frightful sight of her friend. Her eyes had no choice but to stare at Christine’s marred skin, her hollow cheeks, the wide hole in the middle of her face. Even if she had always known the girl was horribly disfigured, there was no true preparation for the full view.

“See? Do you see it now? That thing is not a she, not a her, it is a wild, violent little monster.”

Hearing the truth, seeing the mortification on Annette’s features, Christine began to cry. She knew she had been selfish when she made Annette promise to never come to her show and see her face unmasked. She had known that as soon as Annette knew how awful it was that she’d be like any other normal, sane person and shun her like the rest.

“You’re hurting her!” Annette screamed, “She’s only doing that because they’re hurting her!” Tears came to her eyes, too.

“You’ll understand eventually, I suppose,” he sighed mockingly.

“Why do this now?” Christine cried, “This whole time, you’ve let me be free, why now?”

“It is simply needed insurance now. A year ago, when you came to us, you implied you’d be finished here once we reached Paris. The Draugr from the North is far too lucrative a show to let go of.”

Christine bared her teeth in a vicious snarl. He had been planning this all along, hadn’t he. He had lured her into some sort of false sense of security in her place here so that it’d be much easier to apprehend her. The rage that built in her chest was all consuming and blinding. Anger at him. Anger at herself. Disappointment that Annette would refuse to speak to her now, out of fear.

“Get her locked up so we can leave,” Santiago ordered with a flippant nod before turning away, Annette still in tow.

With them trailing out of view, Christine unraveled completely. She didn’t care what the brutes restraining her thought, she didn’t care if her feral struggling was completely futile against their uncommon strength.

Today had been meant to be a good day. Today had been meant for taking the first steps towards truly finding her father’s killer. She remembered her stones from this morning. The carefully carved lines of each rune imprinted on the inside of her mind and took shape and form.

Something unexpected. Something new burgeoning over the horizon, a safe journey to her destination...And just like that, she calmed. As much as her chest hurt and her mind screamed and she had never thought she would be forced into such entrapment again, Christine stopped fighting them. She could not explain why, not yet...But this was meant to have happened. There was a reason that this needed to happen. As much as it felt like being thrown into a scalding fire as they pushed her within the bars of a cage, she would persevere. She had her runes, she had her father’s violin and the small journal she kept inside the case’s lining. There were coins in her pockets, enough to buy a few days worth of meals if the need arose.

The last time she had been kept in a cage, she had been so young. Her father had just died, she had barely known how to survive. Now, Christine was far more wise to the world.

When they twisted the lock and turned away, she smiled.

The cage was fairly large, she was thankful for that, at least. It was tall enough that she could stand, wide enough that she could lay down. With nothing left to do but wait to be loaded on the train, Christine sat down in her new prison and watched the people around her.

She left her face exposed. 

Perhaps she wished to test her own mettle. Perhaps it was a direct challenge of Santiago. Perhaps she wanted to see people gawk in horror. Perhaps she simply wanted them to look, truly look and see that there was a human being kept in a cage like an animal. That last option was her own wishful thinking at it’s finest, Christine knew quite well that humans were often imprisoned for far less grievous offenses than her own.

It was fascinating, she thought, how people that would ordinarily ignore her completely would now stare and talk amongst themselves as if being in the cage meant that she was no longer there at all. Even as they bustled about, loading things into carriages and finishing their packing, they stopped to look. Her fellow performers looked pleased, as if a great menace had been taken care of by locking her up. She, someone who always kept to herself and was quiet, was a menace and not the jugglers that would routinely keep the entire camp awake at night with their drunken antics. The brave few looked directly into her eyes but then quickly averted them when they realized they could not stomach it. That hurt most of all. Only her father had ever been able to look her in the eyes while bare faced and smile and still somehow fill her head with words of love and beauty.

Except...she then remembered the haunting eyes from her last performance. Erik. She still had no idea why she had picked him out of the crowd that day. It could have been because of his height that made him an obvious beacon. It could have been the way his icy eyes had warmed in the sun, it could have been that he had spoken to her like a person and not a thing when she had guessed his name. Then he had done the unthinkable. Just as her temper had flared from being pelted with rocks, he intervened. On her behalf. The memory flooded her senses. She could smell her own blood, see the unbridled rage in Erik’s eyes and hear the thunderous crack as his fist collided with that other man’s face. She sat in those feelings, still unable to fully process what had happened that day. She could barely believe it had actually occurred. 

Suddenly, she felt quite exposed. Christine dug her black mask out of her pocket and tied it around her face.

When she and the cage were loaded onto the train, she was grateful when one of Santiago’s strongmen took pity on her and threw her own blankets inside the bars. It was a small relief to know that someone had gone back to get her luggage. While she didn’t strictly  _ need _ her few props and costume to perform, it was showmanship. She had worked hard to recreate the image her father had painted in her head with his stories from the North, it was a small source of pride. 

Once the dust had settled and the train had started moving, Christine pulled out her violin. She stroked the fine wood with love, for it was the closest she could get to feeling her father’s embrace ever again. With the first slide of the bow against the strings, she brought him back through music too and was lost in it. It washed over her and soothed her soul. This cage would not contain her. She’d avenge her father’s murder. She would find her peace and the music would lead her to it.

Beautiful melodies filled her senses and she could close her eyes and see an entirely different world. A world with swirling magic and magnificent mythological beasts. Colorful flowers and trees reaching impossibly high towards the sun, leaves rustling in the gentle waves of musical wind. An escape as she remembered what it felt like to have her father’s strong arms around her in a loving embrace, to have him look at her without fear and smile and laugh and affirm her growing talents in constructing such elaborate fantasies through music. It warmed her until reality shattered the lovely illusion.

With the screech of the train against the tracks and the loud, piercing whistles, Christine had not realized how much time had truly passed while she’d been in her separate, imaginary world. Feeling the momentum of the train slow with every passing second, she realized they must have arrived.

Alone and trapped in a stifling cage, Christine had nothing to do but be an anxious bundle of nerves. This was it. What she had been moving towards was finally here and the realization of it grew heavier and heavier on her thin shoulders.

Her stomach growled and she was suddenly aware that she had not eaten anything all day, the pain was awful and hollow. She laid on the floor of the cage and held her knees to her chest.

Waiting was, perhaps the worst torture of all.

At some point, she must have drifted into a light state of sleep for Christine was startled when her cage was lifted off the train. Outside, she was blinded by the sun, even though it was starting to hang lower in the sky.

So this was Paris. She could barely see anything from the view she was afforded. This arrival was so much different than her first ever in this city. That had been a joyous occasion filled with hope and wonder. This was….such a strange combination of eager anticipation and absolute dread.

The next hours passed slowly as her hunger started to gnaw at her. She watched as the faire was reassembled in their new location. She quickly grew tired of watching the people skittering about outside her cage. Christine could only stomach so much of being ignored and treated like an inanimate object. She caught a glimpse of Santiago as he ordered people about. Annette wasn’t far behind him and the wound of today was reopened for her. Of course the dancer would be following him around now, she was probably terrified that she was going to fall over dead for having spoken to Christine so freely, for so long.

With the last remnants of sunlight, Christine found herself reading through her old journal. Within the withered pages she had recorded all of the information she could remember about Paris and her father’s killer. She had it memorized. Every detail she had ever recorded on this paper was seared into her memory but she needed to see it. Pour over it and give her mind something to chew on. As torturous as it was to be trapped, she knew she had to stay put and allow fate to take its shape.

“Christine?” A quiet voice drew her attention. She recognized Annette’s voice immediately, though it was far more timid. Christine looked up to see the dancer standing right outside her cage, a large bundle in her arms. Christine bit her tongue, wanting so badly to respond with bitterness but knowing that would truly accomplish nothing.

“I’m here,” she replied with a measured exhale.

“I brought you some food,” Annette explained, offering the bundle to Christine through the bars of the cage. She couldn’t make eye contact, keeping her face cast toward the ground. Just this morning, this girl had been so unafraid of her that she had helped pack Christine’s things! It felt like salt in an already gaping wound.

“I appreciate that, thank you,” Christine shifted her legs to the side to take the small assortment of items. She opened the bundle and found a few apples and some cheese. As hungry as she was, she resisted the urge to tear into the meal.

“Santiago thought that I wouldn’t be able to face you after this morning. I..I wanted to prove him wrong,” Annette explained.

“He does always think he knows people so well, doesn’t he,” Christine smiled behind her mask.

“I will not lie and say that I am...completely unbothered by…” Annette trailed off and Christine knew that she meant her face. “But I still think of you as a friend so it will just take a little time.”

“I...admire your conviction,” Christine added. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Annette, the girl who ran away from her rich and pampered life to perform would also be bold enough to remain her friend. Still, silence fell between them. Both were unsure of how to proceed now. Annette was now nervous to speak, not wanting to offend her friend and betray her own lingering fears. For Christine, it had been a long time since she had experienced this sort of kindness.

“You can eat if you want, I don’t mind,” Annette tried to bridge the gap between them first. Christine tilted her head and watched the other girl, looking for any sign of uncertainty.

The painful rolling in her gut won out. Christine shifted about in her cage a bit, so her back was at least facing Annette while she ate.

“You must be excited to be in Paris, now,” Christine commented, trying to make conversation as she dug a small knife out of her boot, wiped the blade on her dress a few times and then started peeling one of the apples. It was a habit she had picked up from her father.

“I am!” Annette perked up a little, “I will be able to see Raoul more since he resides here but I am...also nervous about it, too.”

“Why?”

“My father has many connections in Paris, I would not be surprised if he had sent a party to search for me. The rest of the Chagny family are likely aware of my disappearance, for one. I also worry about Raoul. In all the time I have known him, he has never been very good at hiding secrets ,” Annette explained.

“So then why go to him to keep yours?” Christine tossed her apple peel out from her cage and started cutting her fruit into bite sized slices.

“I knew he would understand my wishes and not judge me for them, I suppose,” she continued. 

“And you love him,” Christine teased, starting to fall back into familiar conversation patterns. There was still an unspoken tension in the air between them but the fog was lifting little by little. Having a pile of apple slices, Christine started eating. She lifted her mask with one hand and slid the pieces of food under the fabric with the other.

“I-I!” Annette stammered, “I wouldn’t say that I  _ love _ him! I’ve simply known him for ages and--Oh!” The brunette immediately found something to change the subject. 

“What?” Christine questioned while chewing, hearing Annette shuffle around behind her. Even if she no longer had anything to hide from the other girl, it still made Christine nervous to expose any part of her face around her.

“You threw your apple peel over your shoulder,” Annette declared, looking down at the red piece of refuse sitting on the ground.

“And?”

“And whatever shape it landed in will be the first initial of the man you marry!”

Christine burst into unashamed laughter at the very idea, “That’s ridiculous!”

“It isn’t, I promise you that it isn’t! I played this game with my friend back home in Bordeaux. Her peel looked like an ‘O’ and sure enough, she married a man named Olivier three months later! Now come look at yours!” Annette could barely contain her excitement over it. Christine sighed, finishing her small meal before fixing her mask and twisting around enough so that she could see out of the cage and onto the ground where the peel had landed directly below.

“It’s a ‘C’,” Christine said flatly with an unseen smirk. “I do believe that it is a ‘C’ for Christine and that means that I shall never marry!”

“You do not know what will happen in the future,” Annette countered, her warm and familiar smile came across her lips easily.

“Ah, but I do!” Christine laughed and pulled her pouch full of runestones from her pocket. She shook it for dramatic effect, the stones rattling against each other inside the fabric. With practiced flair, Christine simply reached inside the pouch and pulled out a stone at random to prove her point.

The stone was Gebo. Of course it would be. While it was unseen, the color drained from Christine’s face. This rune typically alluded towards partnership of the romantic sort and Christine refused to believe it meant anything now. It was simply a coincidence, it didn’t mean anything unless it was part of a proper stone reading.

But she still had to prove her point to Annette, which involved altering the details slightly.

“See?” she said, showing the stone to the other girl, “All this means is that I’m going to get a gift of some sort.”

“A husband could be a gift,” Annette shot back, unable to control her chuckling.

“Hush, you!” Christine screeched, also falling into a fit of laughter. This only made Annette laugh harder and soon there were tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes.

Once the pair recovered from their girlish giggling, Annette’s face fell.

“I wish we could go explore the city together...and I feel so terrible that you are now trapped behind bars, I should have been able to do something to stop him,” Annette’s bright eyes looked up at Christine, full of sadness.

“Santiago is smarter than he seems. He planned it this way, I think...But this is not my first time in a cage and I certainly don’t think it’ll be my last,” Christine sighed, “That said, I am less trapped than you think.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. Christine opened her violin case and dug something small out of the velvet lining. A lockpick. She showed it to Annette before crawling over to the lock on her cage. Just barely, she could contort her bony arms through the bars and reach it. With only a little effort, the lock came undone for her and Christine easily pushed the door open. Annette gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth when she realized the sound might draw attention to them. Christine immediately shut the door and locked it again.

“This has to remain our secret. For now, it is safer for me to remain in here,” Christine said, her voice dark and low. The other girl nodded and agreed, but couldn’t contain a smile.

“But we could go exploring together.”

“In theory, yes.”

“I’m going to hold you to it, then. In two nights. Surely, Santiago’s attention will slip once the faire has opened again tomorrow morning. If we go after everyone is asleep, no one will even notice!”

“You’ll have to pull my arm a little harder to get me to agree,” Christine grinned.

“I know that look in your eyes! You were already planning on sneaking out,” Annette narrowed her own at Christine.

“Of course I was. I told you this morning that I had business in Paris.”

“So it is settled then?”

“Yes. We’ll explore the city once things have settled. We have to be smart though, you’ll have to stay away from this cage for a few days...If too many people see us speaking now, they’ll grow suspicious of you. If we want to make it out of camp with no issues, no one can suspect anything,” Christine explained, Annette made a face, knowing Christine’s paranoia was not unfounded, annoying as it could be.

“I’ll keep to myself for a few days,” she agreed. “Is there anything else you need before then? I don’t want to just leave you here, Christine.”

“No, I’ll be alright. You brought me enough food to last.”

“I brought you what a normal person eats in one meal. No wonder you look like a skeleton,” Annette sighed.

“I’ve had less for longer, I’ll be fine. Now go, before Santiago catches you over here. His ire is the last thing you need.”

“That’s very true. I’ll have to tell you all about the conversation I had with him today...it was awful.”

“Go!” Christine exclaimed, waving her hand. Annette sighed and turned away, finally listening to Christine’s urging. It hurt to watch the other girl walk away but Christine was far more joyous just to know that they were even still on speaking terms. A few days of playing prisoner would be nothing, even if it dampened her original plans.

Once Annette was completely out of view, Christine arranged her blankets as a cushion for her back and rested against one of the metal bars. That sense of dread had faded and was replaced by a more hopeful feeling in her chest. A sign of her better mood, Christine sang quietly to herself until her voice was tired and sleep claimed her.


End file.
